


Curfew

by ratpoet



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Drunk!Ian, Fluff, M/M, Season 3, because why the fuck not, cuteness, ian falls asleep on mickey's shoulder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-27
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-26 00:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3831289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratpoet/pseuds/ratpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> 'Right foot, followed by your left foot, I'll guide you home before your curfew.'</i>
  <br/>
</p><div class="center">
  <p>-It's Thunder and It's Lightning by We Were Promised Jetpacks</p>
</div>It's 2 pm on the afternoon of the day of the Pineapple Incident and Ian's already drunk. So of course, Mickey has to walk him home.
            </blockquote>





	Curfew

**Author's Note:**

> Title doesn't really have much to do with the story, but it sounds nice, and also I can't think of anything else :P

It's only two pm in the afternoon and Ian's already drunk. Normally, Mickey would be proud of him, because getting drunk when it's bright sunlight that's lighting up the entire room instead of a fluorescent bulb is a talent that Mickey can appreciate, but Ian's been antsy and pissed since Mickey came into the store only to find a fucking pineapple smashed on the floor and a stoic Ian with his chin set in that defiant way that Mickey's always secretly found cute, so he's actually a little concerned instead.

Well, that, and he doesn't want to be the one cleaning up Ian's puke.        
"Hey, easy, Firecrotch," Mickey says, wrenching the can of beer out of Ian’s hand. Ian makes a weak sound of protest, but Mickey isn’t impressed. “Man, you’re gonna have a bitch of a hangover later.”

"Lip's an asshole," Ian slurs out. Mickey just rolls his eyes at him. Seriously, Ian's devotion towards his brother is stupid at best. Mickey never understood why Ian looked up to Lip so much, when in truth it was always Ian who was the better of the two.

"You're getting that now?" Mickey says, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Ian's so quiet for a few minutes that Mickey thinks he's fallen asleep. 

 _Wouldn't be the first time_ , Mickey thinks. Ian really should have a better tolerance for alcohol, given who his father (or at least, step-father) is. 

"He fucking got into West Point!" Ian bursts out so suddenly that Mickey jumps back a little. 

"Thought you were the one with the big-ass dreams and Lip was the one with zero goals?" Mickey asks. He's surprised he even tries to keep up with the ever-changing drama of Ian's life anymore, but in his defence, it's kind of like watching a daily sitcom. In spite of himself, Mickey's already addicted, and he can't tune out.

"He didn't even want to get in!" Ian says, and then mutters something about silver platters.

"So how did he?" Mickey asks. He's not even sure why he's suddenly interested in Ian's life, but Ian's drunk and he probably won't even remember it later, and Mickey's bored, so.

"Same way he gets everything - his fucking luck," Ian mutters darkly. "He didn't even submit an application! Just talked to some Corporal who immediately wanted to recruit him and his fucking  _huge potential_ ," Ian scoffs. 

Ian puts his head in his hands as Mickey tries to come up with something to say, that preferably won't result in Ian going all Fruit Ninja on the floor again. He's finally settled on 'fuck Lip,' because he doesn't often get the chance to insult Ian's brother with Ian's blessings, and also because it's always a good time to say 'fuck Lip', but it turns out he needn't have bothered, because just as he opens his mouth to utter the words, Ian lets out a frustrated scream.

"What the fuck, man?!" Mickey exclaims, startled. He's seriously so done with this shit.

"I fucking hate that bastard! Fucking  _hate_  him!" Ian says, eyebrows scrunched up and eyes squeezed shut, as if that will help contain his anger. Mickey's a bit taken aback at the explosion, because in all the time Mickey's known Ian, he's never seen Ian this angry.

"Here," Mickey says, tossing an empty can of beer to Ian. Ian catches it effortlessly, even in his current heavily inebriated and highly volatile state. Mickey has to hand it to Ian- the kid's got fucking razor sharp reflexes.

"The fuck do I do with this?" Ian asks, eyebrows furrowed adorably. Mickey groans inwardly. Ian is _not_ adorable, he reminds himself. Ian is _not_ cute, Ian is _not_ pretty, and Ian is not fucking _adorable_. 

"Pretend it's Lip," Mickey says.

"But it's a can of beer!" Ian protests. Mickey would roll his eyes, but he thinks the effect would be quite wasted on Ian, no pun intended. Then there's also the fact that a smile is threatening to break out on Mickey's face, and he'd really prefer to avoid that.

"Yeah, dumbass, that's why I said pretend," Mickey says. "Just crush it, okay?"

"And that will help how?" Ian says, eyebrows raised sceptically.

"Just try it first, will you?" Mickey says, voice raised. 

Ian heaves a long suffering sigh, and Mickey wants to wring his hands at that, because he doesn’t understand how  _Ian’s_  the one who’s suffering here. Ian slams the can onto the floor and grinds on it with his foot, crushing it underneath his worn-out blue sneakers.

Ian stops for a second, and Mickey thinks he’s done, but instead Ian picks up the can off the floor and smashes it into the wall, letting out a screech, an honest-to-goodness  _screech_ , at the same time.

“Do you know how fucking hard I worked for this? How many fucking hours I spent just fucking training and working and-  _fuck_!” Ian shouts, pounding his fist into the wall.

In the split-second before Mickey’s spurned into action, he stands rooted in place and curses himself for ever trying to give out fucking anger management tips. He just wasn’t suited for it. It’s not that they ever worked for Mickey- God knows why he thought Ian’s case would be any different.

“Stop, Ian, fuck!” Mickey finally says, moving forward to stop Ian from fucking breaking his hand or something. There isn’t really any need though- Ian seems to have calmed down, his hands gathered in fists by his side.

Mickey takes Ian’s hand in his and rubs his knuckles lightly, where blue and purple bruises are already blooming, then lets go. Ian’s eyes stay on his the whole time, his face assuming the wounded-puppy look that Mickey’s all too familiar with.

“Calm down, okay? Lip isn’t worth this,” he says, holding Ian’s gaze. Mickey realizes too late all the invisible implications that always go hand in hand with statements like those. After a charged moment, Ian’s eyes move towards the floor as he rubs at his eyes lightly.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says, moving away from Mickey.

“Give me another beer,” he says, sitting down on the floor.

“Are you serious?” Mickey asks, incredulous.

 “Please, Mick. It’s the last, I promise,” Ian says beseechingly, eyes wide and a slight pout on his lips.

Mickey has the stinking suspicion that he’s being manipulated, and he also suspects he’s giving in way too soon, but then again, Ian does sort of deserve a break.

He picks up two beers and joins Ian on the cold linoleum floor, in the small space behind the counter, shielded from the view of now-defunct camera for a while. Mickey can almost pretend they’re somewhere else, a safe haven of sorts, can almost pretend they’re sitting in the corner of an apartment, not this shitty store with its aisles and aisles of canned crap and its fucking metallic smell and the millions of memories Mickey already has of the place, despite all his efforts to the contrary. He thinks sometimes that he likes the store a little too much. Then again, he always seemed to like things he shouldn’t a bit too much.

“Here,” he says, handing a beer to Ian. Ian takes it gratefully and then cuts it open with the Swiss knife that Mickey’s starting to suspect he never parts with, even at night. It wouldn’t be a stretch for Ian.

Ian puts the can to his mouth first, drinking gratefully, then presses it to Mickey’s lips a little sloppily, so that some of the beer trickles down Mickey’s chin. Ian wipes it off with his thumb. Mickey presses his hand on top of Ian’s, where it’s resting on the can, and pretends it’s only because he can't trust Ian’s motor skills at the present moment, and doesn’t want the beer to fall on top of him. He pretends it’s got nothing to do with the way his heart speeds up at any kind of contact with Ian, even at something as fucking faggy as holding hands. But it’s not really holding hands, so it doesn’t really matter, except in all the ways it does.

“You know you can get anything you want, though, right?” Mickey says, in the comfortable silence that follows, broken only by the sound of the can being lifted periodically. He’s speaking so quietly, he’s not even sure Ian can hear him, but he just needs to get the words out. They seem important, somehow. Weighty. Like saying them will set anything right. Mickey should know words can't fix things- they only either mean nothing at all, or screw everything up.

“Can I?” Ian asks after a few moments, voice as small as Mickey’s. Mickey turns his head to look at him sitting there, his knees gathered up in his arms, his head leaning against the wall. His eyes are closed, and Mickey’s glad, because he doesn’t think he could bear it if he opened his eyes and all Mickey could see was the defeat there. Not on Ian’s face, where defeat never had any place, what with the big-ass dreams and the stupid,  _stupid_  hope he’s always somehow held on to taking up so much space.

“Yeah, you fucking can,” Mickey says, his voice considerably louder. He wishes Ian could hear the belief in his voice, but Mickey’s had a lot of practice with keeping his voice flat, because his life’s a fucking poker game more often than not and the stakes are much higher than a few wallets’ worth of crisp notes, and now he isn’t sure he can show the emotions lurking underneath even if he tries.

"You really believe that?" Ian asks. He's still speaking softly, but at least he's looking at Mickey now. Granted, he’s only peering up at Mickey through his eyelashes, so Mickey can't even see his iris, but it’s progress.

"Fucking said I do, didn't I?" Mickey says. His efforts are rewarded by the ghost of a small smile flitting over Ian's lips.

"Anything?" Ian asks. 

"Anything," Mickey replies. 

It's already too late when he notices the fucking glint in Ian's eyes, as his lips bloom into a lopsided grin. Mickey might be wrong, but he thinks it’s a failed attempt at a smirk.

"Really, Mick? So does that include a kiss?" Ian asks, giggling slightly.

Mickey groans. Honestly, the shit he has to put up with. And to think Ian was in the depths of depression just a few moments ago.

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, avoiding Ian’s eyes. There isn’t really much else to say, not when Mickey thinks he’s this close to making a mistake- he’ll either turn Ian away, or pull him too close. Either way, Mickey’s fucked. Well, at least that’s the kind of situation Mickey’s had a lot of experience dealing with. He’s practically grown up just trying to get through each day without getting fucked over by life.

Ian’s silent for a few moments, and Mickey thinks he’s finally fucked it up, so he takes a deep breath and gets ready to make amends the only way he knows how- he punches Ian’s shoulders lightly and says, “Or you could just fuck me instead.”

He’s just starting to get worried at Ian’s lack of a response, and just a little pissed at the silent treatment, when the first snore cuts through the air.  

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Mickey mutters under his breath as Ian’s head slumps onto his shoulders, pinning Mickey in place.

-x-

“Ian. Hey, Ian, wake up,” Mickey says, shaking Ian’s shoulders gently.

“Mmmm,” Ian protests, eyebrows furrowed.

“Come on, it’s closing time,” Mickey says more forcefully. His back has been aching for the past two hours, and he’s got a crick in his neck, and his shirt is sticking to his skin from the sweat. He’d have wriggled out from under Ian long ago, but it wasn’t really an option, what with the way Ian had somehow hooked his arms around Mickey’s back somewhere along the line. And Ian had a fucking death grip, even when he was fast asleep and more than a little drunk. At the rate things have been going, Mickey’s just glad it was a slow day, and nobody came in to see Ian sleeping with his head on Mickey’s shoulder like they’re a pair of fucking faggots.

“Huh?” Ian says, waking up and looking around in confusion. “What- oh, fuck,” Ian gets up hurriedly and scurries out of the shop. Mickey gets up with a groan, stretching his legs gratefully, and grabs a bottle of water on the way out.

Mickey finds Ian heaving into a gutter outside.

“Have some water, dickhead,” Mickey says, stroking Ian’s back as gently as he thinks he can get away with.

“Dickhead?” Ian enquires shakily, once he’s nearly finished the entire bottle of water in two sips. “I'm sick,” he slurs out.

“Yeah, and you fucking deserve it, too. Who the fuck asked you to drink like a million cans of beer in the morning?” Mickey demands. There isn’t any heat behind it, though.

“Wasn’t a mill,” Ian says. “S’more like, two or three.”

 “Two or three my ass. You’re _still_ fucking drunk,” Mickey says.

Ian tries to shake his head vehemently, but nearly loses his balance at the attempt, so Mickey has to catch hold of his arm to stop him from falling into the gutter.

“Jesus, Ian,” Mickey says. “How the fuck will you get back home?”

“Won’t. I'll sleep here,” Ian says, pointing towards the store.

Mickey stops to think over it, and he tries to come up with excuses and ways to wriggle out of the upcoming responsibility, he really does, but he can't shake off the thought of Ian alone in the store at night, sleeping on the floor. He really wants to believe that he can manage the simple act of not giving a fuck. At the very least, he’s determined to try.

“I'll walk you home,” Mickey blurts out, instead of the nonchalant ‘whatever’ he was going for, and sighs. He was  _so_  fucked.

“Really?” Ian says, brightening. “So…it’s like a date?” Ian asks, grinning happily.

“How the fuck is me walking you home to stop you from fucking falling into a gutter or something a  _date_?” Mickey asks, exasperated. Ian straight up ignores him, the bastard, humming to himself loudly.

“We’re going on a date, Mick!” he says, hooking his arm in Mickey’s, and trying to press a kiss on Mickey’s cheek. Mickey ducks just in time, so all Ian catches is the top of Mickey’s head.   

“Not a fucking date,” Mickey mutters softly. And if he doesn’t wrench his hand back out from where Ian’s clutching it to his side, then he tells himself it’s only because Ian’s in danger of falling flat on his face at any moment.

-x-

It’s not as bad as Mickey thought it would be, surprisingly. Ian chatters to himself quietly, pulling Mickey along behind him, and only trips a few times. They both nearly fall into a ditch once, but are saved by Mickey’s timely action. The fence Mickey grabs onto in the split second before they topple over breaks, but it saves them just in time, and Ian reasons that the fence has accomplished its purpose, and thus deserves a round of applause and a proper funeral, but Mickey tugs him along before he decides to dig a grave in the middle of the fucking road.

The sky’s coloured in pastel shades of pink and orange, with scattered wisps of clouds covering the skyline, and a few stars shining dimly through the haze of pollution, and even Mickey can admit that it’s pretty, so of course Ian finds it so fucking beautiful that he has to stop in the middle to click a picture of it with his phone. His hands are shaking slightly, though, so all he gets is a blurry close-up of a pissed off Mickey instead. Mickey tries to grab the phone from him to delete the stupid photo, but Ian’s too fucking fast for him, has already saved the picture somewhere and Mickey’s damned if he can figure out how to find it, so he just settles for aiming a mild ‘fuck you’ at Ian. Of course, Ian being Ian, won't let it go, and just has to keep teasing Mickey until Mickey wants to push him into a gutter himself.

It isn’t that bad.

“Mickey, you know something?” Ian asks, suddenly.

“No, what?” Mickey says, playing along. The way he sees it, if it gets Ian to shut up faster, then it’s worth it.

“Mickey rhymes with hickey!” he proclaims happily.

Mickey closes his eyes and counts to ten.

“Yeah, great,” he says.

“Can I give you a hickey, Mickey?” Ian sings out, and tries to wink at Mickey, but only ends up blinking forcefully instead. He reaches for Mickey’s neck, like he’s going to leave a hickey with his fucking hands or some shit, but Mickey wriggles away from him.

“Oh, fuck no!” Mickey says, one hand extended to keep Ian away from him. The last thing he needs right now is for Ian to fucking bite his neck in an effort to give him a hickey.

“Oh c'mon, Mick!” Ian whines. “You know you love it!”

“Stay the fuck away, Ian,” Mickey says, hand still extended, his face heating up. Yeah, so he does kind of like it when Ian leaves hickeys and nail marks and impressions of his teeth on Mickey’s skin, but that doesn’t mean Ian has to draw attention to it. Especially when Mickey had thought that Ian had no idea, all this time.   

“Aww, look, you’re blushing,” Ian slurs out, his face lit up with a smile, as he takes Mickey’s hand in his and pulls him closer, pressing him flush against his own body. Mickey feels his face grow even hotter.

“Like fuck I am!” Mickey protests, trying to swat Ian’s hand away. Ian doesn’t reply, only leans in and presses his lips to Mickey’s neck while he’s distracted by Ian’s hand grabbing his ass through the rough material of his jeans. Then he blows a fucking raspberry on his bare skin.

“Victory!” Ian shouts, only it comes out sounding more like a string of nonsensical syllables instead, muffled as it is against Mickey’s skin.

It wasn’t as bad as Mickey thought it would be. It was so much worse.

(Which definitely makes it hard for Mickey to explain why he was smiling stupidly the entire time. But it's not like anybody's asking.)

-x-

By the time they reach Ian’s house, Ian’s half-asleep, and Mickey’s half-carrying him.

If Mickey had the choice, he’d just barge right in and leave Ian on the couch, but he’d rather take one Gallagher seeing him with Ian leaning against him like they’re a bunch of fags than the whole herd of them seeing them, so he knocks on the door.

Of course, Mickey’s always had the worst luck in the world, so the Gallagher who opens the door is naturally the one Mickey hates with a vengeance.

“What the fuck?” Lip asks, moving forward and draping Ian’s arm over his own shoulder. Mickey’d thought Ian would put up some kind of protest, pissed as he was with his brother, but Ian seemed to be asleep again.

It was probably for the best, though Mickey deeply regretted not getting the opportunity to see Lip’s face smashed in by his own brother for years afterwards.

“Don’t ask me. You’re the one he was pissed at,” Mickey shrugs, gently disentangling Ian’s other arm from his back.

Lip’s quiet for a moment, and Mickey thinks it’s about time he fucked off, but Lip interrupts his escape.

“You didn’t have to,” he says, rushing through the words like he’s afraid he won't be able to get them out otherwise.

Mickey narrows his eyes.

“My pleasure, and all that shit,” Mickey says, his voice acidic.

“No, I mean, you really didn’t have to,” Lip says, the guilt on his face replaced by the familiar look of disdain and fucking superiority, like he’s one iota better than the rest of them.

“Ian deserves better,” he says, the words cutting through Mickey sharply, a rusty knife wielded all the more expertly because Mickey had always believed those words to be true.

“Yeah, I fucking know he does. So it really makes me wonder- why the fuck are  _you_  the one who’s always getting the things _he_ deserves, huh?” Mickey spits out, with as much venom as he can muster- and trust him, that’s a lot of venom. He turns around to leave before Lip can say any more shit.

“It’s not my fucking fault!” Lip insists, his voice breaking a little, a tiny outlet for the desperation and guilt concealed so carefully underneath to escape.

“Save it,” Mickey throws out over his shoulder. He starts walking back home, but he can feel Lip’s eyes boring into his back.

A tense moment later, Lip’s voice cuts through the air again.

“Thank you,” Lip says so quietly Mickey almost doesn’t hear it. Almost.

“For walking him home, y’know?”

Mickey extends his hand upwards and flips Lip off without turning around.

-x-

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how I feel about the ending, but thanks for reading anyway :)  
> Of course, if you leave comments and/or kudos, I'll be even more grateful.
> 
> On tumblr @ fiandvee.tumblr.com


End file.
